Disclaimer : As always, I own nothing.
Author's Note : As always I'd like to thank the lurkers, readers, favoriters and followers. Extra thanks to everyone who's chimed in to let me know how I'm doing with avreview : katrina2502, goodbye31bluesky, AgentD.6, Scat210, prince-bishop, ChrissyS, scousemuz1k, DS2010, jmsimgs, ladyaloysius, HSMSupernatural, and Guest - Laurie.
The words and support really help me keep going on this story. I feel like I've accidentally stumbled into quite dangerous territory.
There's a hint at why Tony's still here in this one.
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6:44am – In Front of NCIS Headquarters – Washington, DC –
Sometime during Tony's long walk back to NCIS, the snow stopped falling, leaving an unblemished blanket in its wake. With a heavy heart, Tony trudges slowly through the Navy Yard back to the building that eventually grew into his second home.
Before he retreats to the bullpen, Tony pauses to admire the beauty of the fresh snow.
He always hated the precipitation, seeing it as nothing more than an inconvenience, a reason for accidents and lateness. Though as the he watches the morning light burn away the night, Tony wonders just how many other inconveniences he should have learned to appreciate.
The orange sun begins to peer over the horizon, replacing the inky nighttime skies with the delicate pink dawn.
Tony can't remember the last time he had a chance to see the sun rise. Usually, he'd catch nothing more than a glimpse of the sky's changing palette at the end of an overnight shift. Instead of enjoying the simplistic beauty, he would dread the start of yet another sleepless day.
Tony rubs his face, staring at the sun's reflection that ebbs across the waters of the Anacostia. When he glances down at the concrete walk to see a trashcan's shadow but nothing next to him, he sighs quietly and ducks through the doors into the building.
He finds a safety within the walls that he hasn't felt anywhere since his mother died.
He takes the stairs, figuring that Abby would likely be the first one into work, if she ever went home the previous night. When he exits the stairwell on her floor, he's surprised to hear a loud, upbeat jazz tune wafting through the halls. Tony does a double-take, making sure the forensic lab is still here.
As he enters the lab, the song switches to one even more up-tempo.
Just within the entrance, he freezes, studying the newest layout. It's fairly obvious to Tony that Abby's strengths lend themselves to science, not to interior decorating.
Lab tables are pushed against the assorted of techno-toys that Tony never could understand, his image is emblazoned on all the computer monitors, and there's a set of gothic-themed toys wearing black veils on the lab bench. When he slides into the lab, he doesn't notice Abby in the corner with the parasol she reserves for sunny days.
"Abby?" Tony asks.
For all the times he questioned her methods, he never grew tired of the offbeat elucidations. When she doesn't respond, he frowns deeply and runs his hand over the back of his head.
There's a trumpet line that blasts in the song. Abby finally swivels from her position in the corner, staring blankly out into the lab. With her stuffed hippo clutched to her chest, she dances to the drumbeat.
As the tune turns livelier, her motions become frenzied. Transfixed, Tony watches her pump her parasol towards the heavens. A smile touches her mascara-stained face for a brief second and she spins in a tight circle, throwing her sunshade out in a moment of actual revelry.
Its top catches a bottle of some unknown chemical on the lab bench. She finishes her twirl at the same moment that the bottle shatters, its dark brown liquid oozing across the floor.
The song ends, the sound of a skipping record echoes through the speaker. She closes her eyes, breathing slowly. Fresh tears follow the mascara trails that already mar her beautiful face.
She places her hippo on the lab bench, reaching after the remote.
"I can't do this, Tony," she hiccups, voice wavering. "I can't do this. I'm sorry. I know I promised. I know that I promised you this, but I just can't do it."
Tony steps beside her, watching her carefully braid her pigtails like she does whenever she's nervous. It takes him a few long minutes to recall the conversation they had a few months after Kate's death.
When his first partner perished in a sniper attack, Abby spent nearly two weeks secluded in her lab. Barely able to function over the loss, the forensic scientist listened incessantly to traditional funeral dirges while she worked tirelessly to track Kate's killer.
When Tony finally worked up the courage to question the heartbreaking music, Abby explained the fascinating history of music-based funerals that she grew up with in Louisiana. Based on her experiences in her grand-uncle Jim Bob's funeral, his mourners played the dirges on the way to the cemetery and lively, upbeat tunes to celebrate the man's life on the way home.
Up until Abby found Kate's killer, the dirges continually pumped through the lab's speakers. When the news of Ari's own death found her ears, the uplifting tunes filled her lab and a smile finally graced her face once again. She told Tony that the music would allow Kate's spirit to move on, releasing her specter to seek out whatever great unknown came next.
Tony remembers how he asked Abby to forgo the dirges in the event of his untimely death. He only wanted her to celebrate his life, not grieve his loss.
He never intended for her to have to act on the request.
"I can't do this, Tony," Abby pleads again, glancing at the picture on his screen.
"I know, Abs," he murmurs.
Her tears run down her face, dripping slowly onto the lapel of her lab coat. Retrieving her hippo, she uses his back to wipe them away. When he voices his sympathies, both Abby and Tony laugh. She reaches for her remote again, pressing a few buttons. The soul-crushing laments of a funeral dirge waft through the air.
"I know I promised," she says, "but you know when we celebrate, it lets you move onto heaven. I'm just not ready to let you go yet. I just can't accept that you're really gone, Tony. You've been with me for years. All those times that you went out into the field, you always came back. We all knew it was dangerous, but you always came back."
"I haven't gone anywhere yet," he smiles, knowing that she can't hear him.
The fact that he knows he's still here comforts him.
"Do you remember the first thing you said to me?"
She pauses, waiting for a response that shouldn't come.
"Not a clue," Tony shrugs.
He can't pinpoint the moment that he met Abby. Her presence in this lab and his existence in this building are a constant in his life that he never experienced before this job.
" 'Got any tattoos?' " she giggles, brushing a new set of tears away from her cheek. "Like you ever had a chance to see them. Well, except this one," she points to the spider web on her neck, "and this one," she points to the smiley face on her finger. "Well, nevermind, you get the point."
He grins, nodding slowly.
"Just because I didn't have a chance doesn't mean I wasn't going to try. Though I'm glad that you didn't want to."
"I'm glad I didn't try, not like I didn't want to," she smiles tightly. "You were one of my best friends. Even if I never told you, I really hope that you knew. I could always count on you to make me smile, even on the worst day ever. Every day but today."
As she dissolves into tears again, Tony studies the trinkets on her lab bench.
"I can't do this again, Tony," she cries. "I don't know how I'm supposed to keep going without my team. I already lost Kate, now I've lost you. McGee's the only one I have left. How can I focus on my work when I know that he might never come home either?"
"I don't know, Abs."
"You always came home. I never thought there'd be a day that you wouldn't."
Pressing his lips together, Tony feels the unfamiliar ache in his gut again. He turns away, staring at some complicated machine in the corner. Its interface is dark. As he steps around the lab, he notices that all of her machines are dark.
Abby hasn't left them all off since the night Kate died.
Tony buries his face in his hands.
The realization hits him again.
He understands that it's no well-orchestrated prank when he reaches through the set of stuffed animals on the lab bench. Tony really is trapped just beyond the living world. Every part of him wonders what prevents him from moving on.
At this point, he'd even settle for an explanation. Or someone else to talk to.
Though as he stares back at Abby's hunched form still grasping her hippo, he knows he's not ready to leave them just yet.
"G-d, I don't know how I'm supposed to keep going. I can't keep losing people that I care about," she whispers, hugging her hippo to her chest.
Tony slides closer, studying the tattoos on the back of her neck.
"I'm still here, Abs."
He leans forward, placing a light kiss on her cheek. Shivering suddenly, she places her hand on the spot where Tony's lips grazed. As she begins to sob, Tony's heart breaks all over again.
"I know, Tony," she murmurs. "I miss you too."
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8:12am – Bullpen – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –
Moving slowly into the bullpen, Tim keeps his eyes fixed on the rough carpet underneath his shoes. It takes all his energy to place one foot in front of the other on the way to his desk. As he passes by Tony's and Ziva's empty spaces, he accidentally glances at Tony's.
Tim winces visibly, closing his eyes while he exhales raggedly. The surface of his desk still remains exactly as Tony left it when Gibbs ordered them to follow up on their BOLO.
Right before, Tony - .
Clenching his fists, Tim drops his backpack and slides into his desk chair. He desperately tries to ignore the crippling solitude that fills the bullpen, powering up his computer so he can finish the report that chronicles his co-worker's death.
Protocol dictates that his report must be filed within 24 hours of the incident. When his paperwork is filed, the investigation into Tony's death can be closed out. The agency will find a replacement for Tony, reassign Tim to a new team, and start pushing Gibbs to solve cases again.
In due time, they will all move forward. He's not certain that he can accept that future.
Tim's trembling fingers run over the cool plastic of his keyboard while he tries to organize thoughts. Uncharacteristically sluggish, Tim strings together a barely coherent mash of written words. He sighs loudly, deleting his progress.
He starts over, watching the same sentence pop up on his screen.
A figure slides in front of his desk. He glances up at Ziva to see the surprising unease etched onto her exotic features. As she crosses her arms and shifts her weight uncomfortably, he forces a friendly smile.
Tim just wants to be left alone.
"How are you, McGee?" she asks, emotion creeping into her voice.
"Fine," he lies, turning his attention back to his computer.
"Perhaps you should take a few days of leave like Gibbs, yes?"
"I might. Just need to finish the incident report first."
When he mulls over the information about Gibbs' time away from NCIS, Tim shudders at the realization that his boss can't stand the sight of him. His fingers begin to pound the keys quickly and he watches lines of gibberish appear on his screen.
Ziva nods. Reaching forward, she places her hand on Tim's.
He stops typing.
"I am here when you are ready," she promises.
He presses his lips together, nodding while a tear treads down his cheek. When Ziva finally seems to grasp the damage she's doing, she withdraws to her desk. Tim leads forward and buries his head in his hands.
Tim mourns until he feels someone else's presence in front of his desk.
"Ziva, not yet, I'm just - ," he pleads, looking up to see Director Jenny Shepard waiting in front of his desk. "Director."
Sitting up straight in his chair, he blinks away the few tears that still remain in his eyes. While he starts back to his computer, she smiles sympathetically.
"Agent McGee," she says, "I'm surprised to see you back at the office today. Even Gibbs is taking -."
"Protocol says I have to file an incident report within -," he begins.
"Surely," she interrupts, smiling tightly, "in light of the situation, we can deviate a bit from protocol."
Tim shakes his head. Even when his world is ending, there is security in the consistency of procedure. Going through the well-documented, post-incident motions are all Tim has to hold onto at the moment.
He needs protocol.
Shepard nods slowly, turning back to her office.
"Agent McGee," she calls, waving her hand over her shoulder. "I think there's someone I'd like you to talk to."
Obediently, Tim trails Shepard to the conference room. She tries conversation, but he's too busy studying the well-worn carpet that leads the way. He counts the paces, all sixty eight of them.
When they enter the conference room, Tim notices a tall, dark-haired man lounging in one of the chairs behind the table. He rises from his seat, extending his hand towards Tim while the agent stares blankly at him.
"Director?"
"This is Nicholas Boer," she offers, gesturing towards the man. "He's a NCIS' clinical psychologist, specializing in grief counseling. We called him in to help anyone who might need to talk about Agent DiNozzo's death. I'll leave you two."
"Caught the red-eye in from San Diego. I haven't seen snow in a few years," Boer says conversationally.
When he gets no response from either one, Boer's easy smile fades. Tim stares at the floor. As Shepard disappears from the doorway, Tim slides into a chair and Boer does the same.
"So, Agent McGee, do you mind if I call you Tim?"
Tim shrugs.
"Okay, Tim. I'm Nick. Is there anything in particular that you feel like discussing?"
A tortured look passes over Tim's emotional face as he shakes his head. He stares at the specks of blood that he's sure are still on his hands. Even though there's a torrent of emotions that have raged within him since he received the news of Tony's death, he doesn't want to share those intimate thoughts with a complete stranger.
Tim wrings his hands, trying to stave off the anxiety that bubbles inside him.
Boer nods slowly, making a notation on a piece of paper.
"It's perfectly normal to feel guilt, Tim," Boer explains, turning his pen over in his hand. "You survived. Agent DiNozzo didn't. Anyone in your situation would feel guilty, that's completely okay. But you need to understand that it's not your fault."
"Not my fault," Tim laughs, glancing up incredulously. "Not my fault? I didn't call for back-up before we checked out the BOLO. We got separated because I wasn't paying attention. I thought I could arrest Ruiz on my own, but I couldn't. Tony died protecting me. Of course it's my fault."
As Tim bites his lip hard enough to prevent tears from streaming down his face, Boer makes another careful note on his paper.
"Tell me, Tim, what could have happened differently in there?"
He replays the entire situation in his head, forcing himself to relive the crack of the gunshot that cost Tony his life. He sees every moment, every mistake, every opportunity he had to act another way.
There was another way. There had to have been.
"I could have found Tony when we got separated. We could have arrested Ruiz together. I could have called for back-up. Ruiz could have shot - ."
The words spill out of his mouth before his brain can process them. When he realizes what he intends to say, Tim presses his hand to his lips.
"Could have shot who, Tim?"
A quiet settles over the pair for several long minutes while Tim studies the back of his hand.
He wonders how different everything would be if Ruiz ended his life. Sighing quietly, he leans back in his chair.
"Could have shot who, Tim?"
"Me," Tim whispers, face contorting in despair.
Boer raises his eyebrows, scribbling something on his paper. His dark eyes flick over Tim's broken features and the psychologist shakes his head.
"Do you really think you should have been shot instead?"
With no hesitation, Tim opens his mouth to respond. Before the words can form, Boer shudders violently. Climbing out of his chair, Boer rubs his hands over his shoulders and gives Tim a blank, panic-stricken stare.
"Are you okay?" Tim asks.
"Maybe I'm not used to the DC winter anymore, but did it just get really cold in here?" Boer responds, shivering uncontrollably as he slides towards the door.
Tim shakes his head, actually quite pleased with the temperature of the conference room for once. As Tim begins to respond to the original question, terror passes over Boer's face. His gaze fixes on something in front of him that Tim can't see.
He raises his eyebrow at the psychologist's apparent lapse in sanity.
Boer backs slowly to the door while Tim stands.
"Are you - ?"
"D-d-d-done," Boer rasps, icy breath visible as it escapes from his lips. "We're done."
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Hate to ask, but how am I doing?
Must admit that I'm still uncertain about the story...